Joint Effort
by thestylus01
Summary: There weren't a lot of people in his life he could fall apart in front of and still face the next day. Smut. Angst. Jibbs.


Joint Effort

by the stylus

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A/N: For E, who wanted smut, which I could only write with some angst. (It's smangst!) Could take place anytime in s3-s5, although I see it as early s5.

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Disclaimer: All characters are the properties of their creators. The author makes no profit from this work.

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She didn't shift her attention from the screen as he descended the stairs to stand at her shoulder. He listened absently to her side of the conversation as she coordinated with a team on the ground somewhere far away. When she spoke again, it took him a moment to realize it was addressed to him.

"Snipers usually work alone, don't they?"

He shrugged. "Usually have a spotter. Teams of two."

"Like field agents." With MTAC lit only by the flickering infrared picture on the screen, it was too dark to discern anything in her eyes. He studied the way her cheekbones caught and cupped the darkness. "You ever command men in battle, Jethro? Send them into danger?"

"A couple of times."

"Lose any?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

She paused to listen as reports rolled in from the teams on the ground, moving softly around the room. A hand on a technician's shoulder, a soft word in another's ear: she was working them as he'd seen her work rooms full of politicians and criminals alike. Putting back together what pieces she could.

He still didn't know what was broken—she'd locked everyone but the techs and Cynthia out of MTAC for the last three days, and even McGee hadn't been able to get him in. But it didn't take a trained investigator to realize that she was still wearing the same clothes she'd come to work in 72 hours ago. Or that SecNav putting in a personal appearance didn't bode well.

Even without a headset, he could make out the low murmur of the radio chatter and knew from the way she cocked her head that something important was being said. The bright figures on the screen began to cluster. She broke off her circuit to watch as they drew in like a noose. Although he had no idea what was happening, he instinctively found himself holding his breath along with everyone else in the room. Whatever the real crisis was, though, it was over. The scene he was watching now was just the dénouement.

Finally one of the techs blew out a huge breath and slumped back in his chair. Beside him, his colleague turned and gave a grim smile. Jen still hadn't moved.

"Target acquisition acknowledged. Fall back to the transport point. Bravo Zulu, Red Team." Her voice had once haunted him with the way it always sounded as though it were on the edge of breaking. At this moment, it just made it impossible to determine what she was feeling.

As the techs went about shutting down the operation, leaving only the skeleton systems running to monitor the retreat, she returned to stand beside him. "What happened?"

She didn't even bother to glare at him. "Bad intel."

"Ours?" He didn't know if he meant NCIS or something larger by that. It had taken him a long time after her return to Washington to realize how unfamiliar his own agency had become. The murky world of counter-terrorism in which she moved gracefully was incomprehensible to him. And he wasn't intending to make an effort.

"No. But some of the agents were."

He held out the cup of coffee that had been the excuse for his visit. She grimaced a little before taking a long drink, leaving him to contemplate the way her throat moved.

"Cynthia told me she'd shoot me if I didn't feed you."

"Cynthia doesn't carry a gun."

"That doesn't make me feel any safer."

She turned and looked directly at him for the first time since he'd entered the room, as if gauging his intent. On a normal day he wouldn't have thought twice about needling her. But although he couldn't read her at all—she was as closed as if a curtain had fallen across her face—he knew this wasn't the time.

"Give me twenty minutes," she finally said.

"I'll be downstairs."

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She was silent as he dismissed her detail and silent on the ride home, even when he made a turn that certainly told her they weren't heading for Georgetown. He glanced over several times to make sure she wasn't asleep—he'd seen her crash out on all kinds of moving vehicles, including a memorable ride on a flatbed alongside a herd of goats—but her eyes were always open and fixed on a point in the darkness beyond.

He didn't ask whether or not she wanted food, since he knew what her answer would be. Instead, he rifled through his collection of takeout menus and held two up. "String beans Sichuan-style or pad see ew?"

She was moving slowly around his kitchen, studying it, one arm crooked and her hand at her throat. When she didn't respond to the question, he simply chose the menu on top and reached out for the phone. Neither of them was going to taste much of the food, anyway.

Her hand closed over his before he lifted the receiver. "I'm not hungry," she breathed into his ear. He could feel the points where her body pressed lightly into his.

Turning brought them face-to-face, so close that he could see the flecks of amber in her eyes and smell the sour and sweet scent of her skin. Her hand still gripped his wrist, dry and hot as tinder. The menu fluttered to the floor as he reached out to push her back against the countertop. She gave a shallow grunt that might have been the result of a drawer handle digging into the small of her back, but he was past caring. She'd been deliberate in announcing her intentions and he wasn't going to choose now to start backing down from challenges.

Their first kiss was lips and teeth-- a hard, unhurried prelude to the struggle. He finally got her hands pinned flat on the counter and crowded in, grinding his body into hers. She fought back, running a lazy foot down his calf even as she broke the kiss to nip at his neck, using old knowledge against him. He hissed as her teeth closed lightly at the point where neck and shoulder met and she leveraged the momentary distraction, spinning so that he was pressed against the cabinets. His head hit with a thump. Either that or the motion of her hips left him a little dazed.

Her freed hands were already working the buttons of his shirt when he insinuated a hand between them and cupped her breast, tracing his thumb slowly back and forth over her pebbled nipple. He was gratified to see her eyes close as she hissed in pleasure. A flush began to creep up from the deep neckline of her blouse. Jenny was a redhead, and her skin always told the truth.

He pressed the advantage, closing both hands around her waist and hoisting her onto the counter, then stepping between her legs. Her skirt kept him from getting as close as he'd like, so he hooked his thumbs in it and dragged it up her thighs, enthralled by the way she squirmed. She wrapped her long legs around him, drawing him in and pressing their bodies together so that they he could feel the heat of her groin and smell her arousal. The height wasn't quite right and the angle was bad, but he had perfect access to her breasts and she was letting her hands and mouth explore all the parts of him they could reach.

All too soon, though, it wasn't enough. She pushed away from the counter, sliding down his body as she dropped to the ground. They didn't touch as they climbed the stairs to his bedroom, though the sparks crackled between them even without contact, the anticipation plenty to stoke the flames.

Once there, they each peeled off their own outer layers. They weren't hiding—she watched him remove his undershirt as frankly as he watched her toe off her shoes and shimmy out of her hose—it was more like shedding the skins they wore every day. When she wore nothing but her panties and bra, she crossed the room. He was already reaching for her.

She came willingly, and this time when they kissed there were no bared teeth. Just lips and tongues and the sort of wet heat that had him straining, knowing what was to come. He reached behind her and unclipped her bra—on the first try, a feat which made him no less absurdly proud now than it had the first time, though succeeding with Cindy O'Halloran could never have yielded the same reward. Early on, in Paris, she'd once confessed that she had thought him a leg man and had been surprised to find that his attention could easily be diverted upward. He'd never told her that he _was _a leg man—everything else was just a bonus.

The sensation of a single manicured nail running along his shaft sent an electric current through him. It had been too long and he was too close, attuned to the energy that leapt between them in a way that made him hyper-sensitive. To gain time, he tumbled them back onto the bed, rolling her over to rest on top of him. She gave him a feral smile, shucking off her bra and rocking her hips against his, the two layers of cotton providing extra friction that drew soft sounds from both of them.

He reached down to run a hand along her thigh, dipping under the cloth at the apex and feeling the wetness gathered there. She lifted herself slightly, curling her fingers into the waistband of his boxers and tugging, his hips rising to allow her to slide them off. He helped her divest herself of her panties and then lay still, breathing shallowly as she crawled back up his body. She curved a hand around his length and stroked once, twice, before holding him steady as she sank down onto him, biting her bottom lip and he slid home.

It was all he could do to keep his eyes open as the warm heat engulfed him, and he ran the back of his hand from her sternum to her navel, feeling the soft flesh against his knuckles. She began to move slowly, and he responded, meeting her hips as they rocked together. For long moments they moved slowly, watching one another. The heat was building in him, and he reached down between them to stroke her, seeing the crease form between her brows as she closed her eyes.

He knew her body well, even now, and after a few long minutes, he also knew that while he loved her like this, arced above him and slowly undulating, tonight it wouldn't be enough. With his eyes meeting hers, she was never going to stop thinking about whatever had happened in MTAC, never going to be able to let go. He pressed up, cradling her ass as he shifted their weight. Then he reached down and lifted one of her legs, spinning her so that she faced away from him. She took the hint and moved onto her knees as he shifted behind her, sliding quickly back in.

For a moment he stayed still, curved over her as her arms supported the weight of them both. But soon his hips were moving again, and he reached one hand around her body to stroke her while the other gripped her shoulder, pulling her back into him. The air was thick with their scent, and her skin shone with sweat in the low light. He could feel her muscles begin to flutter around him and moved his fingers more quickly over her, his mouth buried against her shoulder as he groaned at the sensation. In an instant, her orgasm crashed over her, and she flung her head back as she cried out. The rippling waves made it impossible for him to hold back, and he slammed himself into her, moaning a curse as he came.

When his brain functioned again, he pulled them both down onto their sides, curling into her back as his breathing evened and his heartbeat slowed. He traced abstract patterns over the sharp bone of her hip until she laced her fingers with his, stilling his hand.

It wasn't the first time they'd broken Rule 12 since she'd become Director and likely wouldn't be the last. He'd thought long and hard about it the first time: there weren't a lot of people in his life he could fall apart in front of and still face the next day. He couldn't afford to lose one to a stupid mistake. But one look at her when he'd shown up on her doorstep and he'd known it was all right.

They weren't exactly friends; he wasn't sure they ever could be again. But within the bounds of their knowledge of each other, they shared the sort of trust that allowed them strip themselves naked.

She reached down and tugged the sheet up over them, and he allowed himself a moment to savor the idea that she was staying the night. Even permitted a grin to steal over his face, which he hid by scraping his teeth along her shoulder. She wouldn't be in his arms by morning—she always ended up rolling away to sleep alone—but she would be in his bed.

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Fin


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